


the only way out is through

by lesbianpatrick



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Angst, Hiatus, M/M, Magical Realism, Supernatural Elements, idek what to tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-11
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-08-08 05:03:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7744366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbianpatrick/pseuds/lesbianpatrick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick is lost in a thrift shop.</p>
<p>Actually, he isn’t sure how he got here anyway. He doesn’t remember coming in here. He doesn’t even think there was a thrift shop on the street he’d been walking down. Certainly not one this huge. Piles of old stuff, both trash and treasure, rise to the ceiling everywhere, rows upon rows going back farther than Patrick can see.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the only way out is through

**Author's Note:**

> so 
> 
> funny story
> 
> i was watching SYTYCD...and then wanted to turn JT and Robert's mirror routine into a fic.
> 
> and so this happened, even if the mirror in this story is barely there and not even like the dance routine that inspired it.
> 
> magical realism ftw
> 
> enjoy!

Patrick is lost in a thrift shop.

Actually, he isn’t sure how he got here anyway. He doesn’t remember coming in here. He doesn’t even think there was a thrift shop on the street he’d been walking down. Certainly not one this huge. Piles of old stuff, both trash and treasure, rise to the ceiling everywhere, rows upon rows going back farther than Patrick can see. 

He seems to be the only person in here. Even the old mahogany counter is empty, with not so much as a cashier behind it. Hell, there’s not even a cash register _on_ it.

“Hello?” He calls out nervously, wondering how he even ended up here, and how to get out. He turns around. There’s no door.

Shit. Is he stuck in Creepy-Ass Thrift Shop? Great. That’s just great. He has a show tonight. He has plenty of people who probably care less about his music and more about him to impress, or at least attempt and fail to do so. He doesn’t need this right now, really.

He wonders what time it is. He turns back to the neverending shop, only to see a wall of clocks, from analog or digital to ornately decorated cuckoo clocks, right in front of him. He swears that wasn’t there before. Is he going crazy? Is this all a dream? Probably the former at this point, he suspects.

The clock wall is rather unhelpful, actually. Every single clock reads a different time. An analog clock says it’s half past six. Another says it’s 11:11. The largest cuckoo clock, which has a worn leather bird statuette poking out on a broken and rusty spring, tells him that it’s a quarter to two. A digital clock unhelpfully flashes _EGGS_ in the corner.

“What the hell?” Patrick asks the empty store, voice hushed. As if in some sort of twisted response, a breeze blows through, ruffling his hair, and it carries a whisper with it: _the only way out is through._

Patrick is pretty sure he’s just imagining this. In that case, if this is all just part of him losing sanity, he’d better just go through, right?

Patrick takes one hazardous step, then another, and another, and he’s walking through the store. He passes piles of junk and a few helpful things mixed in. A pile of broken typewriters looms ahead, each with an unfinished paper poking out.

Another draft of wind carries the paper out of the topmost typewriter, and it hits Patrick in the face. He frowns as he looks at it. It’s definitely from a typewriter, and some of the ink bleeds where it seems that tears had fallen upon fresh typing. Some sections are crossed out, but readable nonetheless. Patrick’s eyes scan the page, taking it in.

_i miss you i miss you i miss you please come back i didn’t mean it, not any of it, i didn’t really i still love you i still need you i can’t do this without you ~~without us~~ pleasepleaseplease come back we all need you ~~but especially me~~ please_

Patrick stares at the paper, wondering why it hurts so much to read the words

A second paper blows off another typewriter, and this one hits his face as well, and he reads it, but this one is different. It’s just his name. Over and over and over until it all seems to bleed into one, and the repetition hurts Patrick’s head so much that he has to throw it away. He moves on before a new weird paper can fly at him.

He continues to pass piles of worthless junk, still with the occasional helpful thing, though none of it is really helpful to his current situation. What even is his current situation? He has no idea. 

Suddenly, Patrick freezes. There’s a huge gap in the floor in front of him, and he almost just walked into it. He looks down, blinking into the gaping chasm. It’s dark as far as he can see.

“Hello?” Patrick calls into the pit. His voice echoes.

_hello, hello, hello, hello, HELP ME, hello, hello..._

Patrick stares into the hole. What the hell? How did his echo do that? That’s not how echoes are supposed to work. He takes a deep breath and turns, trying to find a way around the gap. 

It turns out that the hole in the floor is actually not too large, and Patrick weaves around it easily.

Almost immediately, he comes to an old, half-rotted wooden stool, and perched on top, an even older porcelain doll. She has long, curly black hair that may or may not be real human hair, tiny beady green eyes, and painted on red lipstick and bubblegum pink blush that are chipping away with age.

“Hello.” The doll says. Her voice is pretty in the way that death is pretty; mystifying, beautiful, but dangerous and to be avoided.

At this point, Patrick is unfazed by the talking doll. This place is weird enough already.

“Hello.” He replies. “Where exactly am I?”

“The Maze.” The doll replies crisply.

“Oh. Okay.” Patrick blinks, then continues, “How do I get out?”

The doll’s mouth moves slightly, curling into a frightening smile. “I can’t tell you.”

Patrick frowns. “Okay. Then how did I get in?”

“Oh, you’re a smart one.” The doll comments, still beaming at him. “You got in because you were called.”

Patrick’s frown deepens. That’s not too good an explanation. He presses on. “So...why was I called, then?”

The doll hums happily. “Very smart. Very smart, indeed. People are called here for one of two reasons. You either wanted to get lost, or need to free a lost one. Did you want to get lost?”

“I’m pretty sure I didn’t.” Patrick answers immediately.

“Then you must save someone.” The doll’s eerie smile widens. “Good luck.”

With that, she and her stool vanish into thin air, unblocking Patrick’s way forward.

“The only way out is through.” He reminds himself, taking a deep breath and pushing onwards.

The next obstacle appears to be a clothing section. Rows of shirts and pants hung on racks stretch out in every direction. As Patrick moves through them, he begins to recognize some. A few racks of these are _Pete’s_ clothes. Patrick shudders. He doesn’t know how all of these ended up in here, but then again, after the strange echo in the chasm and the talking doll, nothing really surprises him anymore.

He finds that the racks that have clothes belonging to Pete on them lead in their own path through the rest of the clothes. After what feels like thirty minutes (Patrick has really just lost all concept of time at this point), he exits the clothing maze to find a huge, open room. It’s almost completely empty, but for a rectangular object covered by a battered canvas cloth across the room. Patrick knows what it is immediately. A mirror.

_This is it,_ he thinks. _This is the final obstacle._

He takes a deep breath and walks across the room, old oak floorboards creaking under his feet. The room is apparently much larger than it first appeared, as he feels like he’s been walking for hours. But finally, the covered mirror is within reach. With a shaky breath, Patrick reaches out and rips away the old canvas.

It falls away to reveal an ornate rectangular mirror with swirling designs carved around the edges. And in the mirror, Patrick finds himself staring at...not quite him.

His reflection looks like him, yes. But also different. In his reflection, his natural hair pokes out from under a fedora and glasses are perched on his nose, but Patrick knows that (a) his hair is bleached right now, (b) he isn’t wearing a hat of any kind, and (c) he definitely has contacts in right now.

His reflection smiles at him. Patrick isn’t smiling.

“Who are you?” He asks, glaring imperviously at his grinning reflection. To clarify, it’s not the same creepy smile the talking doll had. The reflection’s smile is soft and happy, and Patrick doesn’t know which he hates more.

“Obviously, I’m you.” His reflection answers, laughing. Even his laugh is happy. Patrick wants to punch something.

“No, you aren’t.” Patrick insists, because that isn’t him, it will _never_ be him.   
“Don’t you know what this mirror is?” His reflection asks.

Patrick shakes his head bitterly. 

His reflection just laughs again. “This mirror can show you the future. Whether you like it or not.”

Patrick definitely wants to punch something now. “No! That will never be me!” He’s pointing angrily at the mirror as he screams, because that can’t be true.

His reflection just blinks. “Why not?”

Patrick is seething at this point. “Because you’re too _happy_. I will never be that happy.”

“Why not?” His reflection repeats, crossing his arms.

Patrick opens his mouth to respond, and his anger dissipates as he answers quietly. “Because...anything that would ever make me happy like that is gone. And it’s never coming back.”

Instead of asking “why not” again, like Patrick had expected, his reflection grows silent and says, voice hushed, “It isn’t his fault.”

“What?” Patrick asks, genuinely surprised.

His reflection looks him in the eyes. “No one ever chooses to get lost.”

Patrick suddenly flashes back to what the creepy doll had said. About getting lost, or saving someone who had gotten lost. How Patrick had to save someone. The typewriters with their depressing message. The broken echo. The maze of clothes. 

Suddenly it all makes sense.

“Where is he?” He asks his reflection desperately.

His reflection smiles softly, more sad than happy, and Patrick decides he actually preferred the happy smiles to this. “Come on.”

The reflection steps back and little, and Patrick gets it. He takes a deep breath, straightens himself up, then throws himself at the mirror full speed. He expects it to smash against his skin, for glass to fly everywhere, for there to be blood. But instead, he just falls through, feeling like he’d just slipped underwater. He lands hard on solid ground, and hops to his feet immediately.

He takes in his surroundings. He’s in a small, dark room. There’s a small light on the ceiling, but it barely illuminates anything. Except for a body on the floor, curled up in fetal position.

Patrick knows.

He runs towards the body, but this room seems to be just like the mirror room. He’s barely making any progress in the seemingly small room. But he can’t stop now. He’s so close.

He keeps running.

It seems to take days, weeks maybe, but Patrick has no way of knowing. But finally, he makes it. He’s right there.

He kneels down, takes a deep breath, and quietly says, “I’m here.”

Pete turns to look at him. He looks terrible. He looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks, maybe months, maybe longer. His hair is an unkempt mess, and he looks like he’s been crying more often than not. But he’s _here._

When Pete doesn’t say anything, Patrick sits down next to him and starts running a hand through his hair. “Hey. I’m here now. It’s okay.”

Pete speaks, weakly and slurred, but it’s words, and that works for Patrick. “‘s not okay...”

Patrick smiles softly, briefly reminded of his reflection by his own smile. “No. Hey. I’m right here, okay? We’re leaving.”

“No way out.” Pete mutters, shrugging.

Patrick looks around. In the middle of his joy of finding Pete, he’d never noticed that the room seemed to have no exit. Shit.

Patrick takes a deep breath. No, wait. He turns back to Pete.

“The only way out is through.” He says confidently.

Pete frowns. “What?”

“Can you walk?” Patrick asks, giving Pete a worried look.

“Sure?” Pete shrugs, but it’s a question.

“I’ll support you.” Patrick promises, and pulls Pete up by his arm.

Once he’s on his feet, Pete wobbles a bit, and Patrick holds him close. Then he begins walking. Not in any particular direction, but walking. It’s the only way. He knows this.

Pete slows him down a bit, but Patrick is here to help him in the first place, so he has to take him.

This time, it feels like years. They keep walking, getting more and more tired with each step, to the point where Patrick isn’t sure if he can support Pete any longer. He’s on the verge of collapsing, of giving up.Then, like the light at the end of the tunnel, there is a door. Right in front of them.

Patrick reaches out and turns the rusted brass knob, pulling the door, covered in peeling gray paint, open. All that’s behind it is a bright white light, which seems to slowly consume the two of them until there’s nothing left.

And then they’re standing on a sidewalk in front of a rundown McDonald’s, still clutching each other, just in case this is another trap.

Someone walks past, giving them a weird look.

It’s not a trap. 

They’re free.

Patrick can’t help it. He starts crying. Soon Pete is too, and they’re holding on to each other with tears running down their faces.

For a second, Patrick is hit by the realization that he hasn’t even considered where they’re going to go from here. The band is still broken, and he doesn’t even know what his relationship with Pete is anymore.

But then he remembers the mirror, and his reflection. He’s going to make it.

They’re going to make it.

Patrick grins into Pete’s neck where his head has fallen, and whispers, “The only way out is through.”

Pete nods. “Let’s make it out, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Patrick agrees.

_They’re going to make it._

**Author's Note:**

> lmao im also thirsty for feedback hint hint


End file.
